A poem for The Painter
The mirror is a paintbrush
With sharp edges
And a few torn out Brisels
They're sharp and will cut you
But the paintbrush holds the paint
Soon to be on her wrist
No form of wistful thinking could pull her from this drought
But stained sleeves can be washed of red paint
However, scars on your arm will always be the same
YOU ARE READING
Philophobia
PoetryAssorted 100% original poetry pieces. Also some random excerpts from small stories (also original). Philophobia: (n.) a fear of love, falling in love WARNING: Indirect and direct references to sexual assault, depression, self-harm and suicide
